


Filling Silence

by kentucka



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-07
Updated: 2008-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There’s always this moment, after sex, when your brain’s still wiped clear of coherent thought, yet there’s this feeling that you should be saying something so the silence won’t be in such stark contrast to how loud you’ve been. It’s embarrassing.</i></p><p><i>Because you’ve got</i> nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filling Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Title is stolen from a song by [The Butterfly Effect](http://www.thebutterflyeffect.com.au/), which also served as writing soundtrack  
> In a way, this takes place in the same 'verse and is a continuation of [Change](http://archiveofourown.org/works/310525), but you don't have to have read that, it perfectly makes sense as a standalone.

There’s always this moment, after sex.

You’re still feeling your heart pounding in your chest, the fast, heavy pulse resonating in your limbs and in that small artery on the inside of your lower lip. But it’s already slowing down.

Your knees and elbows and back ache, you’re not as young as you used to be, no doing this all night long anymore, but it’s all worth it. The fire in your muscles just adds to the heaviness and fatigue that overcomes you, and you could fall asleep or die, right here and now, happy and sated.

But your mind’s just coming back to itself, still processing sights and sounds and touches, too much too fast that they queued up, and while your body would like to rest, your mind can not.

There’s always this moment, after sex, when your brain’s still wiped clear of coherent thought, yet there’s this feeling that you should be saying _something_ so the silence won’t be in such stark contrast to how loud you’ve been. It’s embarrassing.

Because you’ve got _nothing_.

~*~

He thinks _close_ at the door, and it slides shut with a soft sound, like a breath of air.

Rodney briefly looks up from the laptop, and is back deep in his world of physic’s laws by the time he says his greeting. “Evening, Colonel.” It takes a second for the genius physicist to realize something isn’t quite right.

“Colonel? Um, not that I’m not enjoying late night visits or your company, but… It’s past midnight. And you are in my quarters.”

“Well-observed,” John smiles.

“Then why…?” Rodney stops. Stops typing, stops trying to glance at the readings on the laptop screen, stops being distracted. John loves being the sole center of his attention.

“Trust,” he says.

Rodney’s eyes widen, and after another second of confused hesitation, he nods slowly.

~*~

John watches as Rodney takes his time to undress, to fold his clothes up and place them somewhere out of harm’s way. He pulls his shirt over his head by the neck, back a graceful curve, although the motion itself should make anybody look awkward and fumbling. But Rodney is in no hurry, doesn’t get caught in the fabric. Next are the pants; button and zipper are opened with infinite patience. He doesn’t look like someone eager to get to the sex already, but John knows - as cliché as it sounds - that this is not about the sex. It is something else entirely.

Every piece of clothing is taken care of, smoothed down, _fondled_ and neatly stacked onto the pile, even socks and underwear. The routine helps Rodney clear his mind, and gives him time to prepare mentally for the scene, the chance to back out if he wants to. It is his signal that he is into it as much as John, that he wants to continue.

John spends these minutes usually stripping down as well, but today, he prefers to watch. Rodney is by no definition an Adonis, but this has never kept John from appreciating the body before him for what it means to him, for all that it can and freely will give him.

The strength in those arms is easily underestimated, but John knows they can support both of them whenever he is exhausted and draped over Rodney’s back.  
The belly might look made solely for the intake of food, but John has soon discovered that it is the best place to lay his head and breath deeply after a wild round of sex.  
That mouth and throat and brain are the source of many a scientist’s nightmare in Atlantis, but to John, they make the best suggestions, and most wonderful noises; there is nothing John likes to do better than kissing a broken _please_ off Rodney’s lips.

When Rodney is done, and slips to his knees next to John, relaxed and ready, John has to smile. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

He can feel Rodney draw breath to respond under his hand, but the man remains dutifully quiet.

~*~

Despite various protesting muscles, John rolls onto his side and watches Rodney’s chest heave. His eyelashes flutter slowly.

~*~

For a while, John keeps Rodney focused on his breathing, on John’s murmuring voice, on soft touches to his shoulders and neck to tip him forwards and back, to the side or down. When he is satisfied with Rodney’s give, he orders Rodney up, and kisses him for the first time that night.

“Trust,” he asks again, because this is how they begin.

“Always,” Rodney answers in a soft voice, but with a conviction behind it that makes John smile in pride.

He gets Rodney spread out on the bed, and John loses his clothes while Rodney pets lazily over his own skin. The sound of chest hair rasping under Rodney’s hands distracts John for just a moment, but then his own hands can follow the trail.

For once, he does not hold back. John touches and kisses every part of Rodney’s body he ever had an inkling to: eyebrows always furrowed in concentration, corners of mouth which serve as John’s version of a McKay-mood-ring, collarbones and every scar on his chest that John was unable to protect Rodney from, wrists and knuckles of agile hands, bends of the elbows and hollows of the knees simply because they are Rodney’s hot spots, turning the man below him into a quivering mass of anticipation. Rodney cards his fingers through John’s hair in exchange, scratching and rubbing, widening the circles down neck and shoulders.

Only when John no longer can stand it, when Rodney begs in moans and whimpers, does he take Rodney into his mouth, and gives them both what they need.

~*~

John doubts he will ever tire of these sights:  
The endless planes of land thousands of feet below, and nothing but vast blue sky all around him, with the occasional white dusting of a cloud.  
The peaceful rhythm of waves, as they crash against Atlantis’ walls.  
The slight sheen of sweat glistening on Rodney’s skin after a particular involved scene, the lack of all doubt or fear in his eyes and the soft upturn of his lips, not quite a smile, only contentment.

 _You’ve got nothing… that does not sound cheesy, or like a marriage proposal._

~*~

“You’re beautiful,” John says after a while, when the awkwardness of silence is almost trumped by the awkwardness of saying something too late.

Rodney huffs. “You’re just saying that because you got to f--”

“Don’t.” The word’s a bite, harsher than John intended, but he doesn’t take it back. It shuts Rodney up, and that’s the only thing that matters right now. “You are,” is all John offers.


End file.
